“Your breasts are full enough to hold,” he composed, and she moaned the words as he tested their weight.
“And these?” he asked, stroking the peaks of her breasts with the tips of his fingers. “Tell me about these.”
“Pink berries . . . on a . . . bed of . . . snow,” she sang, her face flushing.
The song was silly and she felt like a fool, but watching Hod’s face in the looking glass as his hands moved down her body—not just touching her, but seeing her, seeing them, their bodies together—made the song feel almost sacred, like the keeper’s praises at the end of the day.
“You are looking at me . . . and I am looking at you,” he marveled.
She nodded, overcome, and they began again, her song and her eyes, his hands and his touch. She followed his movement, letting him match sight with sound, resisting the urge to direct his hands.
“I hear your blood coursing and your heart galloping, but I see the flush of your skin and the heaviness of your lids. And I see myself, loving you,” he rasped.
She continued on as long as she could, letting him see what he did to her, what she did to him, but when he found the place where her pleasure was centered, she couldn’t sing anymore, and she closed her eyes against the onslaught of sensation.
“Your eyes are my eyes,” he implored. “Don’t close them. Let me see you.”
She opened them again, searching his face in the mirror, and he waited for the image to return, his arms wrapped around her, his lips to her hair.
“Don’t look away.”
She didn’t. Not again. Not when her limbs quaked and her belly trembled. Not when he had to help her stand. She watched him touch her, unblinking, murmuring the song of supplication all the while.
Then he lifted her in his arms and laid her across the bed, needing her mouth more than he needed her eyes, and they forgot about the mirror and the magic of their connection and simply made love, Ghisla and Hod, in the quiet of his humble room.
He covered her with warmth and kisses until she wept his name, and he saw her pleasure and his own in the purring length of her sighs. In the woods she saw stars; in the castle bed, she saw only him, his mouth and his sharp edges, the brow that was lowered in concentration, trying not to take his pleasure too fast when the journey was so sweet. But she wanted to watch the moment he came undone, and she hummed louder and clutched his hips to push him over the edge. He kissed her, mouth open, tongue seeking, and she answered, anxious and eager, before pushing him away again so she wouldn’t miss it.
“Ghisla, I’m waiting for you,” he begged. She laughed and writhed against him, trying to oust his restraint only to lose her grip on her own. She clutched his face in her hands and saw the shudder that rippled past his eyes and down the harsh lines of his face before she captured his mouth and let the tide take them both.
They slept briefly, wrapped around each other in sated exhaustion, only to wake each other again with lovemaking, unwilling to waste their time in sleep, but when Hod stiffened and cocked his head, listening to the castle halls, she held her breath and he rolled away from her to clear his senses. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed and he turned back toward her, but she saw the ending in his grim expression.
“The cock has crowed. The mount is stirring.”
She sighed but rose and began to dress, and Hod did the same. She braided her hair with flying fingers and wrapped it around her head, tight and neat; if she was seen, she wanted to look like she’d risen early instead of not sleeping at all. She washed her teeth and splashed her face before pushing her feet into her shoes. Hod stood by the door, his head bowed, and she thought he was waiting for the path to clear. She slipped her hand into his, signaling her readiness without speaking. His fingers tightened around hers, and he brought them to his cheek.
“I love you, Ghisla,” he said. They’d whispered the words over and over again through the